Prognosis
by halo fire
Summary: prog*no*sis; 1. a prediction of the probable course and outcome of a disease 2. the likelihood of recovery from a disease


**ni*hil*ism**  
n.  
  
1. _Philosophy_.  
a. An extreme form of skepticism that denies all existence  
b. A doctrine holding that all values are baseless and that nothing can be known or communicated.  
2. Rejection of all distinctions in moral or religious value and a willingness to repudiate all previous theories of morality or religious belief.  
3. The belief that destruction of existing political or social institutions is necessary for future improvement.   
4. also **Nihilism** A diffuse, revolutionary movement of mid 19th-century Russia that scorned authority and tradition and believed in reason, materialism, and radical change in society and government through terrorism and assassination.  
5. _Psychiatry._ A delusion, experienced in some mental disorders, that the world or one's mind, body, or self does not exist. 

  


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It's raining.   
  
But... it's always raining here, isn't it? I can hear the rain hitting the roof with murderous fury, pounding pounding pounding like a giant that has been stolen from. Trying to bring the roof down on me, on us, on everyone and everything that resides under it. I can see the rain flowing down the glass, and my distorted reflection. I can see eyes in the reflection (are they even my own?), and this distorted smile (I don't know whose that is) grinning back at me. If that's me, why am I smiling? I don't smile like that. Do I? I need to ask someone.   
  
Someone calling my name and I turn, the rain soaking my hair, dripping off the tips of my bangs and off my nose and off my lips, and my tongue licks the water away. My clothes are soaked, a black mass clinging to my body like a second skin, all shiny and bright in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamp. I turn and there is Solo. His name is sharp on my tongue and it jumps to my lips, but the rain is distorting my voice. I step forward and my feet are bare as they press into the thick clumps of wet sand. The crashing waves are deafening (is he saying something? I can't hear) and the wind his fierce, my loose white shirt billowing about my thin body.   
  
Solo's eyes are big and bright and loving, these glittering.. what's the word? Cerculean? No, that isn't right. Cobalt. Solo's eyes are these shining cobalt orbs, inviting me closer. They want me. They love me. I want to me closer, but the wind is so strong. My feet are still bare and I can feel them numbing up as I trudge through the thick snow. Solo's hair is unruly, this glowering, unfriendly mass of brownish-black.   
  
"I love you, Duo," he says.   
  
I am reading his lips because the glass between us is soundproof. The different rooms we are in, they are both sterile and cold and white all over. The white floor is freezing as I step forward and press my fingers against the glass.   
  
Solo's eyes aren't friendly anymore.   
  
Heero raises his gun and his finger tightens on the trigger. The glass shatters and sound explodes between us, but before I can hear it someone calls my name again.   
  
I am in Deathscythe's cockpit and it is raining. I can't see anything but there is danger in every direction. The Gundam is shaking, wildly, much more than it should. I'm bleeding from a million cuts and bruises and it's so hot in here. The flames are licking at my clothes, and everything catches fire. My flesh is crawling and burning, but I'm so trapped. Humiliatingly trapped. I don't want to die this way. There is a bright spark and the control panel blows up. Fire is everything, and I should be dead.   
  
When the smoke clears, I'm on a bed. Heero is above me and my legs are wrapped around him. His hands are crushing my hips as he thrusts into me, harder, much harder than he should but it feels so wonderful, if only because it's him. My lips part and I moan, then Heero's fingers close around my mouth. He tells me to be quiet, so I just bend over the table a little more but it's so bloody hard to be fucked standing up. Heero slides his hand up under my shirt and his lips are pressed softly against my own, much too softly for Heero.   
  
Solo pulls back and licks his lips. His eyes are bright and friendly. He smiles at me. "That's how you kiss somebody, all right?" He leans back and turns his bright eyes away from me. His mouth stumbles over his next words and I don't know why, because Solo is always a smooth talker. "You... taste nice." I blink at him, and I brush my fingers over my lips. There is blood on them and the coppery taste explodes in my mouth. And I scream.   
  
The OZ soldier keeps thrusting into me, harder and harder and harder. I'm on my knees, crawling, trying to get away but his thick, beefy hands are crushing my hips, he's holding on so tight. The blood dribbles down my chin and mixes in with my tears. The blood flows from a thousand other wounds. My blood becomes his lubricant. He thrusts in again and I can feel something snap inside of me as I look at the smoking remains of Maxwell Church. Everyone is dead, here. My boots press into the smoking debris, and I wipe the blood from my eyes and my face. My hands never stop bleeding and I can feel my shoes filling up with it.   
  
I look down at my wrists, at the gaping wounds. I think I can see down into the bone. I'm so cold, this water is freezing. The cold tile of the shower is pressed mercilessly against my bare skin. I'm shivering like mad, and the blood drips down into the drain. The water dilutes it, washes it away. Off in the distance, I can see a little boy with a long braid, picking through the debris.   
  
"Duo," I say, and my voice is a monotone. But wait, that's not my voice.   
  
I can feel myself breaking through the haze, a million and infinity little dreams flashing past me as I fly up on charred and smoking wings. Someone calls my name again, and the voice isn't a monotone this time. It's crackled and hurt and filled with sadness and pain and so much feeling its frightening. I look at Heero, and I look at the blood on my hand. I look at the blood soaking both of our clothes. I look at the pool of blood we are lying in. I feel weak, and Heero looks so pained.   
  
Which one of us is dying?   
  
I look at Heero. His eyes are big and bright and full of feeling and love and pain, but most of all pain. They are so bright and shining and glittering and wet and... what's the word?   
  
Yeah.   
  
Cobalt. 


End file.
